


These Scars That Run Deep

by NightTimeRush



Series: Shadows Start to Sing [1]
Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Accidental Starvation, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Canon-Typical Violence, Detailed description of depression, Dissociation, Dysfunctional Family, Family Feels, Flashbacks, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Heavy Angst, Mentions of Starvation, Mentions of genocide, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Scarring, Scars, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Vergil is not coping too well, and neither is Dante tbh, angsty family feels, detailed description of near drowning, fear of aging, not exactly an ED, unhealthy eating habits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 09:10:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19353910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NightTimeRush/pseuds/NightTimeRush
Summary: "You've managed to scar yourself, Vergil. Just like you scarred me. Do you even realize how hard that is to do? We're half Devil, Vergil! And you've managed to scar us both!"





	These Scars That Run Deep

**Author's Note:**

> First I'd like to start off with an apology for how long this is LOL. I briefly contemplated dividing it into a few chapters, but I felt like that wouldn't have been appropriate for the way this was written.
> 
> I've been idly writing on this for the past month, and well, honestly if I have to look at it one more time... So I'm just going to go ahead and post this, yeah?
> 
>  
> 
> Before carrying on, PLEASE HEED THE WARNINGS! 
> 
> This fic deals with: detailed descriptions of depression, anxiety, panic attacks, alcoholism/alcohol abuse, unhealthy eating habits (although they do not fully fall within the category of an ED), fear of aging, unhealthy coping mechanisms, dissociation, angst, detailed descriptions of near drowning, ptsd, flashbacks, scarring and scars, accidental starvation, mentions of accidental starvation.
> 
> I want to say that's all, but if I find any more TW/CW I will be sure to add them. If you find something you think should be added as a TW/CW please do tell me and I will amend that immediately! 
> 
> This is currently un-beta'd, so all mistakes are my own. I will come back to update this as soon as I get someone to beta it!

 

Where once lay clean and smooth alabaster, was now a scar.

 

It's long, and thin, and so jarringly _appropriate,_ Dante thinks. Holding a strange eeriness to it, in that oddly grotesque way only scars could ever hope to have. It's a rare sight to behold, for Devil hybrids such as themselves, whomst wounds knit quickly, leaving newborn flesh behind as if the physical trauma had never occurred at all.

 

It makes things such as scars, _precious_ , in a way. A physical reminder that they aren't immortal, _invincible_ \-- they can die. ( _One of them had, and Dante had been the one to make the kill, back in a time he doesn’t care to remember.)_

 

But it had taken the strength of Rebellion, for Dante to scar. His late father's Devil Arm; passed down to him in inheritance. With precise aim and a clinical gaze, Vergil’s calloused fingers had plunged the sharp metal deep within his chest atop the Temen-Ni-Gru, long ago. It seemed only appropriate that Vergil would soon follow a similar fate, at his own hands at that, deep within their childhood home.

 

He had plunged Yamato into himself without a second thought, hadn't he. Dante can practically envision it, with concerning ease: his brother, falling apart at the seams, broken in body and in mind, as he desperately gripped their fathers sword between shaking hands. Knuckles bloodless with the sheer force of it, as he turned the quivering blade onto himself in a last ditch effort. Diving it directly into his chest, much reminiscent of how he had done to Dante, all those years ago.

 

He had witnessed the shape 'V' had been in, as they neared Urizen for the second and final time. Dante had seen the cracks that ran along his skin, how his body had grown weaker and weaker, as the sand reached the thin neck of his hourglass. Undeterred. 

 

V had been a dying man on a tight schedule. Stumbling through the hordes of demons with unbreakable resolve, on what little borrowed time he had left. The only concise goal the man had carted around, like an unbearable weight on his short life, had been to reach his other demonic half. In what Dante knew was unadulterated despair. Those green eyes had carried the weight of Vergil’s sins, his dark hair cloaked the pain and regret that pulled at shattering flesh.

 

It was not hard to imagine white hair and blue eyes, in their place. And that, Dante knew, was its own blessing.

 

He had listened closely to Nero’s narrated struggle, as he came to terms with losing a limb. With what had happened that day, in his garage: the obscured figure stumbling closer, wheezing, and growling, and on the brink of _death._ Dante was not an idiot, contrary to popular belief -- he has been collecting information ever since his twin had forcefully taken Yamato from his nephew, when it was the only news concerning Vergil he had at the time. 

 

And once they had dealt with Vergil’s latest tantrum, and they had reconvened in the joint effort to sever the Qliphoth roots from the Underworld itself -- once they had begun settling their score -- he had gathered whatever fragments Vergil had bestowed upon him in a sign of trust, between the sounds of metal hitting metal, and the taste of blood in his mouth. 

 

Dante had amassed the bits and pieces. Assembling the scraps of information in what order made the most cohesive sense. Weaving together a story of desperation. Unfortunately, though, understanding was a different matter entirely, and it had done very little to aid his brother in terms of _forgiveness_.  
  
Had Vergil been able to look at their mother in the eye, when he spit on her only lasting gift to them? Had he turned his back on her, as she stared down at him from within the family portrait, hung up high in the heart of their parents mansion. Could he even find the decency in himself to _look at her_ when he discarded _her_ blood that coursed through their veins? Had he realized, he’d have turned from their fathers knowing eyes as well, when he averted his gaze to commit the unthinkable. Or did he just not care?

 

It was rare, for Devils to scar.

 

And yet here they were. A couple of scarred half Devils; irrefutable proof of their unbiased humanity.

 

Dante had never quite been able to let himself fully explore the possibility of anything like this actually happening. In all of it's details and implications. Always too scared to dive too deep, too scared to get too entangled in the wistful and cruel claws of hopefulness, long since having (begrudgingly) accepted his brothers chosen path in life. 

 

He hadn't given up on him, not exactly, no. He had simply let it be, as Vergil had so fiercely wished; and in turn, it had left him with the weight of his regret, and the ever present questions that plagued his mind: of if one day, his brother would grow tired of his ridiculous pursuit. That one day he'd realize -- he'd _understand_ how useless it all truly was. _What was the point of searching for power, if you've estranged your last remaining reason._ And on the days Dante dared dip his feet deeper than a few toes, when the melancholy swelled till it spilt into his glass in the form of liquor -- he'd go as far as hope that one day he'd come back. So that they may put the last remaining shards of their family back together. 

 

But the carefully crafted, although precarious, escapism eventually crashed in on itself, on an island, long ago. And when it was all over, and there was no more room for toying with the future, Dante had mourned him. As deeply as a brother could mourn their own flesh and blood.

 

He couldn't have imagined _this._

 

But then the Demon Tree fell, and so had they, plunging willingly into Hell with nothing but their swords and each others company.

 

And here lay Vergil, scarred in remembrance of yet another failure. But with a renewed will to _live_ , and the mark upon his flesh to prove it.

 

It’s a delicate thing, pink discolored line starting between his breasts, and ending just below his solar plexus. Holding an elegance that was so painfully _Vergil._

 

_They match now._

 

Dante’s mind supplies, as he watches, letting his eyes run across Vergil's face, then southward towards the scar, once more. Taking in his brother’s solid form. His very real, and _alive_ form. Dante's fingers twitch, unbridled, _aching_ to touch, to run his dirtied fingernails across the raised flesh in morbid curiosity. Like they used to do as children when they'd rip scabs open to see how long it would bleed, before their advanced healing kicked in. Something in him telling him that if he touches it, _it’s real. He's really here._

 

But he doesn't dare touch.

 

Not without permission granted.

 

He's never been the patient one -- not when Vergil was concerned. And they're certainly no strangers to petty fist fights.

 

But this was different.

 

He can feel his feet hesitantly placing themselves one in front of the other with great care, as he walks a thin line in uncharted territory. Entrance granted only by his brother. What with the past they share, the boundaries they've placed between themselves, walls built by justified hate, and grief, and perhaps misplaced love amongst all. Love of which was not a given. Never a given. Blood did not equate love. A lesson learned and relearned throughout the years.

 

No, he doesn't dare touch, lest the world come crashing down at once, when they're still working on tearing down walls, one brick at a time.

 

"Brother." Dante hears himself say, in a sort of detachment that always follows anything regarding Vergil. As he slips into the familiar limbo of denial. A reflex.

 

"Brother," Vergil replies with envied ease, letting it hang in the air between them.

 

As if he isn't laying on the dirty and blood stained ground of the Underworld. Amongst the viscera of the demon horde they had temporarily teamed up to extinguish; before they had grown bored and their attention had redirected at each other once again.

 

As if Dante wasn't currently placing his entire weight onto him, keeping him pinned to the disgusting pavement beneath them. As if he hadn't just deliver a blow with such force, it had torn Vergil's vest clean open with little care. The leather slicing like butter under The Devil Sword Dante’s brute force, baring one of the many terrible decisions his twin had made. Baring the permanent, painful reminder of his weakness, for his brother’s eyes to see.

 

Vergil's expression is neutral, an icy facade, as he stares ahead directly into Dante's matching eyes. But he knows it's all bluff. He can feel it in the way his brothers muscles tense and shake between his thighs, wound so tightly and so close to snapping all at once, in what Dante knows will result in a Trigger.

 

But it doesn't. Vergil is showing restraint. _Flexing_ the bullshit control he has over his emotions. Dante knows its all lies, and Vergil knows Dante knows. And yet he still tries, ever the stubborn man. Dante can feel his blood stained lips twitch at the corners in response, lifting in an ugly grin that holds all the pain he’s thrown aside for the forty something years he's been alive.

 

_Years upon years of cleaning Vergil’s messes._

 

"We match now." He manages, between a wheeze and a sharp inhale. He knows his ribs are cracked in multiple different places. The chances of internal bleeding were high; his brother was vicious.

 

Something flickers across Vergil's carefully blank expression -- something akin to amusement, perhaps laced with what could be argued is a hint of fondness.

 

"That we do, little brother." Vergil concurs.

 

"Hey, I'm only younger by a few minutes!" 

 

"Younger nonetheless." His brother replies, ever quick on his toes, and Dante clicks his tongue in annoyance.

 

It’s enough to get him to move, slowly raising himself up and off of his twin, allowing the other man to breathe with ease now that he didn’t have two-hundred-something pounds of brother weighing down on his lungs.

 

A moment of awkward silence stretches between them, as Dante lets himself fall to the ground with a deep sigh, and all the melodrama he knows for a fact Vergil shares, and Nero inherited. His brother is not paying him any mind, if the sound of Yamato being sheathed is anything to go by. So Dante makes good use of the volatile truce to let his body heal, breathing carefully as he feels his insides rearrange, mending themselves like muscle memory.

 

But the silence then drags on, for another moment, that then turns into two, and eventually into a handful; and Dante can’t stand it any longer. He’s practically bursting at the seams with curiosity. “Did it hurt?”

 

“Did what hurt, Dante.” Comes the nonchalant response, as Vergil inspects his torn vest with vague distaste. Yeah, nothing’s going to be able to fix that, not here in Hell at least. His namesake sword made quick work of it, and briefly, Dante wonders if it’s enough to convince his brother that they are done here. That it was time to leave, go home.

 

“You know, stabbing yourself in the chest and all.” Dante answers with deliberate detachment.

 

Vergil is quiet at that-- pensive, Dante realizes once he glances over, watching his brothers expression morph into something calmer, less guarded. The sad state of his clothing seems to be completely forgotten for the time being, as Vergil’s eyes turn distant, mind retreating into whatever hellish memory held the answer to Dante’s question.

 

It has to have hurt. Dante knows first hand what it’s like to feel every inch of metal as your own damn sword jams itself into your flesh, hitting bone and muscle alike, piercing whatever organ stood in its way.

 

“It hurt like a bitch.” His twin concludes after a moment of thought, with a nod to punctuate the statement, and everything.

 

It catches Dante completely off guard, a surprised howl of laughter tearing itself from his tired lungs.

 

____

 

"So," Dante begins, swinging his legs upwards and onto the old wooden desk. "We ever gonna talk about it? As in, _properly_ talk about it. None of that beating bits and pieces out of you bullshit anymore." He lets the magazine he wasn't even reading fall to the side, disinterested in it to begin with.

 

Vergil ignores him, from his spot on the worn couch across the room. The bastard.

 

Dante’s patience is running thin.

 

They've been back for a total of two weeks now, and Dante has already allowed himself to fall into a comfortable routine, picking up right where he left off. His shop is still standing, miraculously, and all of his knick knacks he's collected over the years are still sporting their thick layer of dust, untouched and exactly where Dante left them. The bills have been paid -- all of them -- and he knows he owes a certain couple of ladies big time for keeping the place running in his absence. The spot on the floor, by the feet of his favorite chair, has already been re-christened with the first empty pizza boxes, starting to pile precariously from the one man pizza party Dante has thrown himself every night since their return. His coat is hanging in its rightful place, on the broken hanger behind his desk. The phone has already begun ringing, letting the jobs roll in. And its enough for Dante to know that soon enough he'll really be back in the full swing of things. 

 

Unsurprisingly, the women had shown up exactly two days post their return to the human realm, wanting to witness it with their own eyes. They were absolutely anything but discreet with the inquisitive looks they kept throwing Vergil. And Dante really had to hand it to his brother, for not unsheathing Yamato, not once in retaliation. 

 

He's also already gotten his due, in the form of a full clip entering his persona suddenly, and with little warning. Lady had been pissed. Though whether about Dante skipping off supposedly for good, about Dante dragging Vergil back from Hell with him, or about Dante skipping off for good with Kalina Ann, is yet to be said. (All of them. It was all of them.) 

 

Trish on the other hand had just stood there, watching it happen, mirthful smile pulling at her lips, holding all her amusement at the spectacle of Dante getting shot on sight. The traitor. 

 

But the metal ripping through his flesh had been so familiar, a comfort in its own twisted way, as Dante grinned, and swooned, and played dead for Lady's amusement. 

 

He had missed this -- them. He had missed home.

 

And overall, it's been a relatively peaceful couple of weeks, Dante can easily concede. No hard jobs, for now. No apocalypses, no dumbass brother causing havoc. Only pizza, the jukebox, the A/C blasting through the building ridding it of July's muggy heat, and his good old bed. And more importantly, Nero was still away, busy with his own job. (He loves the kid, truly he does, but he can only handle getting shot so many times in such a short period of time.)

 

Comfortable, it was comfortable.

 

Or as comfortable as it could get, really, with Vergil doing everything within his power to avoid everyone. He can understand why, of course -- if the way Dante had been greeted was anything to go by, Vergil had a damn good reason to hide. 

 

But Nero had not liked that -- had not liked that one bit, when the kid finally came around to greet them as well, bringing his own brand of violence. Making a beeline straight for Vergil's hiding spot. 

 

Nero had regarded his father with uncharacteristic mercy at first, acknowledging the man with words rather than his fists. And the only response that got him had consisted in an odd mixture of a frown and a sneer, that had Dante nearly choking with laughter. 

 

Vergil had been _awkward_ \-- his _brother_ , awkward. The poor man didn't have a damn clue on how to interact with his own _son,_ opting instead to avoid him like the plague _._ It was probably the most pathetic Dante had ever witnessed his twin. And Vergil had made him pay later than night, as he plunged Yamato right between his fourth and fifth rib, with absolutely zero mercy.

 

But there was only so much running his brother could do before his son caught up to him. Nero had been just as pissed as Lady, perhaps more. Although Dante hadn't expected anything less from his hot headed nephew. It only helped matters that Dante supposed they both deserved it. For leaving him behind, for withholding information, _for calling him dead weight,_ when Dante knew the kid would take it to heart.

 

The anger was deserved, yes. But not as much as Vergil had deserved it-- oh no, that bastard of a deadbeat father deserved everything his son threw at him. And Dante held no qualms in sitting back and watching it happen. What had been surprising, however, was how short lived the kids temper had been, his anger concise but brief, the fight ending quicker than Dante had expected. 

 

The brat had gotten good -- better, in their absence, he could give him that. Though perhaps Nero was still reeling at the thought of even having a father, hitting with hard and decisive blows, rushing to get this segment of Sparda bonding over with, so that he may commence throwing around the myriad of questions Dante was positive the kid had. Regardless, armed with the stubbornness they all shared, Nero made good on his promise of keeping the peace between them. And for that, Dante was thankful.

 

The questions were all sidestepped, of course. Dante had answered what he could, but Vergil -- Vergil had done nothing but stumble his way through a handful, before excusing himself abruptly to retreat to the guest room. Faster than either of them could even so much as think about whipping out their respective weapons. Nero had been baffled at the nerve -- but Dante could see the kid quickly catching on. Nero had already come to a fairly solid conclusion, regarding what kind of man his father was. And Dante could only pat the poor spitfire's back in what he hoped was a comforting gesture, offering an apologetic smile.

 

Things had smoothed out from there. Mostly, at least.

 

But the fact that Vergil was very clearly out of place remained unchanged. Dare he go as far as to say his brother was _inadequate._ It barely left room for teasing -- the looming threat of ruining whatever it is they are slowly working on too oppressing for him to do anything but hold his tongue. It's too soon -- the fickle rekindling between them is too new to withstand anything but their run of the mill battle induced taunts. Or occasionally, as harmless of a quip as Dante could dare. A cocky insult and a sword being swung around was always the safer option, of course; but that was going to have to change, much to Dante's own consternation. 

 

Hell had been easy. Letting their Devils run free had been simple, uncomplicated. It was being human that was hard.

 

Vergil flips another page, eyes chasing the hand written words in that leather bound poetry collection. He's always been damn good at running. They've both always been good at running. But Dante is done with that shit. They're too fucking old for it.

 

____

 

"Dante," he hears Vergil start, from where he's standing at the door frame of Dante's bedroom. He knows Vergil can see him childishly pressing his face into his pillow, in the desperate attempt to escape the bright afternoon sun. He doesn't care. "What'd'ya want Verge," he hears his brother click his tongue in annoyance, and Dante groans. It's too early for this. 

 

"Let a guy get his beauty rest, will ya?" Dante laments, when the other isn't quick enough to respond with _actual_ _words_.

 

"Its past noon, Dante." Vergil heaves in disbelief. This was going to be weird, wasn't it. Having his brother share the same space as him, indefinitely, after all these years apart. 

 

They seem to have managed to ease their way into this almost uncanny limbo, of picking up right where they had left off: before everything went south, the first time the demons had targeted them. Back when they were on… _friendlier_ terms, purely for lack of better words. 

 

Dante finds peace in it. Momentarily negligent of the messy past they share. His soul rejoices at the thought of having his brother back. It briefly makes him wonder if Vergil feels the same, if he's missed Dante as much as Dante had missed him. If he's aware of what they're doing -- their bordering on child-like interacting, in the desperate attempt to latch onto something, anything, that doesn't involve blood. Forcing them to retrograde all the way back to childish ribbing. Although between the decade of alienation, and the following hostility, that endeavour had been harder and much more daunting than it had any business being.

 

"Spit it out already," Dante grouses dramatically, easily slipping back into the role of annoyed younger brother, his voice rough with sleep. "I don't get up till mid afternoon at the earliest." 

 

It does feel like they are children again. It's kind of nice; bringing Dante back in time. Or like déjà vu.

 

"You're late on your water bill." _'We'll be late for school, Dante.'_

 

"Okay well, can't you just make yourself useful or something and pay the damn thing?" ' _I don't want to go, can't you just pretend to be me or something?'_

 

"Incredible. Your ridiculousness never does cease to amaze." Vergil scoffs. _'Then who will pretend to be me, idiot.'_

 

"Argh -- fuck off V."

 

He's fully expecting a sword through his chest, or multiple swords through his chest -- which ever Vergil can pitch against him first, and he knows he's all but straight out asking for it. 

 

But it never comes, and that, perhaps, should have been the first sign.

 

____

 

"Hey Dante, where's _dad_?" Ah, Dante will never quite get used to that. The kid referring to Dante's twin as his father. He knows it's dripping with vehement sarcasm, still -- it does nothing to take from it. But his voice holds the promise of a fight, and Dante doesn't know if he's in the mood to clean up the inescapable mess they always tend to leave behind.

 

Nero's eyes are already scanning his office, before Dante can even deign him with an answer. Searching with the alertness of someone not entirely human. 

 

"Hell if I know," Dante knows exactly where he is, "probably buried in a pile of books somewhere," he waves a hand through the air dismissively, "you know him." 

 

His nephew's eyes make one more quick sweep of the room, before they land and pause on Dante. And Dante feels something akin to unease, under the weight of Nero's blue gaze, eyes gleaming with the colorful reflections from the lights of the jukebox in the corner.

 

"Sorry, kid. Just me today." He slips easily into banter, "don't tell me you don't wanna spend the day with your favorite awesome uncle?" Dante feigns offence, arms opening wide at his sides, his smirk blooming into an open grin, all teeth 

 

Nero levels him with a cold, hard glare.

 

It tickles Dante something fierce.

 

The kid is one hundred percent Vergil's, alright. Hell, he'd been the first to stumble upon the discovery -- and yet, it was still weird for his _brother_ of all people to have a _kid._ An _adult_ kid at that. There's just something about it. An undeniable, unavoidable truth, that drops into his stomach like a bag of bricks when Dante isn't swift enough to evade that dangerous line of thought: they're getting old. 

 

People always say, when your childhood friends start getting married and popping out babies, you've officially been dragged into adulthood. Dante isn't entirely sure how much he cares for that thought. As unperturbed as he trudges through the world on a daily basis, the knowledge that him and Vergil have already touched upon their forties, is distressing in its own special, hopeless way.

 

And Dante is suddenly rushed with the urgency to _fix it_. To make up for all the lost time. He doesn't want to be forty. He wants to be nineteen again, wants to experience alcohol with his brother for the first time, wants to get in trouble like a bunch of stupid teenagers, wants to grow up alongside his twin.

 

"Old man?" It's Nero, who drags him out of his growing panic. "You good there?" 

 

Dante blinks, arms slowly lowering to rest by his sides. He opens his mouth to reassure the kid, but a strangled chuckle stumbles from his throat instead.

 

"Just fine, kid," but Nero doesn't look convinced at all, "don't worry about it."

 

____

 

"Hey Vergil!" Dante says to a closed door. "Your kid just left -- was looking for you, yanno." 

 

But he doesn't get an answer. "I covered for your ass. So you owe me. Your son has your same murderous glare."

 

____

 

He's been watching his brother closely, lately, searching for something -- he's not entirely sure what. But something seems… _off._ And it's jarring in a peculiar way. Throwing Dante's whole mojo for a loop.

 

He can sense it, he thinks. It's been affecting his mood as well, causing him to border on moping for no real reason, and Dante doesn't like it. Doesn't like his brother moping either. They aren't children anymore, they should be above this. But then again when have they ever been mature about a damn thing in their lives; as much as Vergil likes to fervently deny it on his side. 

 

Regardless, Dante has a twin to decipher, and unfortunately for him, time has made their twin mind powers rusty at best, and completely obliterated at worst. He really doesn't have a lot to work with.

 

So he watches, gathering intel. As Vergil barely leaves the safety of the spare room he now calls his own. Dante merely observes when Vergil does his damndest to interact as little as possible with everyone. Only really venturing down into the open office space when in need of something, be it food; the newest paperwork he's in charge of organizing; or occasionally just to instigate Dante, like the good ol' days. 

 

And that last one -- _those_ _instances,_ are his favorite. He can't help the damn near nefarious grin that pulls at his features when his brother throws the first quip. When he's nothing short of compelled to instigates right back every single time, till it always eventually evolves into a full blown fight, Triggers out and swords clashing with abandon. 

 

And in those few hours, everything is alright again with the world. His brother is a presence filled with life once more, matching blow for blow, Yamato scraping against Devil Sword Dante with the force worthy of a couple of half Devil Sons of Sparda. And Dante is elated. 

 

But it's moments like those, that make it difficult to discern what exactly is wrong. And he's reluctant to ask the source -- for damn good reason. Dante knows he's not going to get a straight answer for his efforts. 

 

That would simply make it too easy.

 

____

 

"Wow," Lady says, from where she's perched at the edge of Dante's desk. Amazement coloring her words. "He's really still hiding?"

 

Dante throws her a curious glance. Leisurely leaning back further into his chair, arms crossing over his chest. He can tell she's still struggling to reconcile the various images of his brother, throughout time. The one from long ago, in that room, in that tower, where they had all fought each other, and subsequently teamed up to fight a common enemy. Urizen, monstrous and power hungry, with no real regard for anything but that damn piece of fruit, willingly sacrificing thousands to obtain his goal. Followed by present day Vergil, hiding up in his room for -- how long has it been now? Weeks, Dante is sure.

 

She reaches over, in the epitome of casualty that rivals Dante's own, fingers toying with an old pizza box from a few days prior. Dante watches her chance a peek, and then immediately pull away with a grimace.

 

"Yup. Exactly like a moody teenager." Dante drawls, with a punctuating huff, as he pushes himself upright.

 

Something odd flickers across her expression, a complex cocktail of emotions, and Dante thinks he can vaguely make out what could be concern, amongst them. 

 

For what, he's not sure. Could be suspicion directed at what she still considers to be an enemy, hiding away, unsupervised. Could be concern directed at Dante, Nero, or Vergil. Or for humanity as a whole, considering their track record. Dante really can't say. But the list to pick from is vast.

 

"Shouldn't you, like," she starts, unsure, "do something about it?" Heterochromatic eyes search Dante's clear blues. 

 

Huh. Maybe it is concern directed at Vergil, after all.

 

The concept alone forces Dante to pause, a pale brow rising in transparent bewilderment. "That is not what I meant." Lady is quick to defend, her own brows knitting with frustration, and perhaps a touch of disgust. 

 

She clicks her tongue, idly and gingerly lifting a pamphlet from the pile of unread mail. Holding it between two fingers, up and away from her person, with the characteristic disdain Lady tends to openly express about everything in Dante's office. "Don't you think he's acting suspicious?"

 

Ah. That.

 

With a sigh deep enough to make Dante nearly contend her involvement in the matter, Lady hops off the desk, her heels clicking against the hardwood floors upon contact. All of her nonchalance now fervently artificial. Making it perfectly clear what she thinks of the way Dante has been handing things.

 

Of course she has a point. For all they know, Vergil really is hiding up there, cooking up his next mastermind plan to take over the Underworld, possibly the human world along with it. And they've all been merely letting it happen, right under their collective noses. The amalgam of reasoning as to _why_ Vergil shouldn't be left to his own devices is not meager. And soon he'd have Trish on his scent as well

 

Dirty fingers reach up to scratch at his scraggly beard, as Dante mulls this over. 

 

For some reason the thought never quite crossed his mind. Or maybe it has, and Dante had merely dismissed it without giving it much weight. It's a very fair concern, a very fair one indeed. He knows first hand how prone Vergil is to diving into his studies head first. How he lets himself be easily consumed by the thirst for knowledge -- because knowledge was the first step to obtaining power after all. Plus, his brother has always been one huge nerd, plain and simple as that. By now, Vergil might as well be halfway through his meticulously organized checklist for world domination.

 

Alas, it's just another mystery he doesn't particularly care to solve right now.

 

Instead, he rolls a shoulder at her, in a half assed shrug. Phone already in one hand, the other reaching to dial the number to his favorite pizza joint. Maybe this time he'll get bacon and pineapple. Switch it up a bit. Try new things, discover new horizons.

 

"Dante."

 

"I heard ya."

 

Wrong thing to say. Dante can feel the murderous intent that exudes from her.

 

"Look," Dante says, waving the phone through the air. Before she pulls a gun on him. "If he's really up to something then I'll just have to kick his ass all over again." Fresh pizza now. Genocidal brother later.

 

"You're unbelievable." Lady mutters in contempt, her mismatched eyes rolling in exasperation.

 

____

 

Dante starts resorting to the other means at his disposal, to stave off the conversation he really doesn't want to have. 

 

Nero comes over more often, for one, in the attempt to offset his brothers bad mood. He takes on more and more jobs, dragging the kid with him. They argue, eat take out, and fight demons together -- and things seem to slip back into place. 

 

It works for a little while, as Nero filled the space with boisterous laughter, teasing, and petty play fights once more. But even that doesn't last long, when it's the kid himself who starts questioning Vergil's absence more and more. Nero's patience running thin. 

 

Dante knows the kid can sense his father -- Nero knows the man is nearby, inside the building. And Dante knows his nephew is as sick as he is with Vergil's avoidance. But Nero is as clueless as his uncle, on what the correct approach is, and thus of no real aid in this matter.

 

Two weeks into Dante's seemingly sturdy plan, Nero outright refuses to come around HQ, leaving him with an ultimatum.

 

 _"Talk to him. Or so help me Dante,"_  the kid had threatened with all the diplomacy of a partial Devil, keenly aware of his own power. Dante knows Nero is not overreacting, they do really need to talk. Now more than ever with the addition of recent developments. So Dante had agreed, offering his nephew an easy grin. _"I know kid."_

 

Yet, he doesn't know what's waiting for him. Simmering below the deceivingly calm surface of Vergil facade. What he does know is that he's practically diving in blindly, and he's absolutely unenthused by the notion.

 

But his brother can't carry on as he is. And Nero knows that if his father won't speak to his own brother, then he's definitely not going to speak to his son.

 

So it's up to Dante; but that's just fine. Customary, even.

 

____

 

"Vergil? Bro? Are you going to come out of there any time soon? You've been cooped up for hours." 

 

Vergil is not Dante's responsibly --  not entirely at least. He's still very determined to keep an eye on his older brother, that has not changed.

 

They're adults, though, and Vergil is capable of taking care of himself. He has to, with the years they've spent apart. And If the man wanted to drown himself in his books, then Dante didn't exactly have a say in the matter.

 

But he hasn't seen Vergil since he had come downstairs, earlier that morning, just before Dante had gone to bed. He thinks he remembers hearing him grab something from the fridge -- some kind of left over from the day before. 

 

It's late evening now, and although Dante has been sleeping, he's hard pressed to believe Vergil has left the sanctuary of his room ever since.

 

"Verge?"

 

Vergil doesn't answer. And Dante realizes he's going to have to hunt him down.

 

____

 

Eventually he does manage to corner him, catching the other off guard, unaware. It's almost terrifying in an amazing way, how Vergil has eased himself back into his life. Willingly, as if he hadn't left in the first place, without a second thought. His brother had grown comfortable enough to occasionally let his guard down, growing trusting of Dante's request of a mostly functional family. Enough to think he was safe in Dante's domain.

 

It wasn't swords and guns Vergil should have been wary of. Dante can see the exact moment his twin realizes this.

 

It activates the older's fight or flight, and Dante knows he'll always fight. It's written in their DNA. In the blood they share. But not this time. Not if he has anything to say about it. They need to _talk._ This had gone on long enough, as is. And the seclusion was putting a damper on everything, including his own relationship with Nero. 

 

The heavy tension that pressed down on them, suffocating, was starting to toe the line of unbearable. And something told Dante that if the kid could have it his way, this would have been all resolved already. Weeks ago.

 

They aren't Nero.

 

Metal hits metal once more. And they're forced back into their old ways of communication.

 

____

 

"I can't believe you _still_ haven't talked to him! What the _hell_ are you waiting for? A signed invitation? Another demon tree?"

 

"I know, I know, alright? I'm trying! Can't you give your old uncle a break?" Dante whines into the receiver. 

 

He should have foreseen Nero calling his office to check up on his -- _progress._ And the kid is extremely unenthused by the glaring lack of headway Dante has made. Somewhere down the line, this had become a one way street -- or perhaps everyone is just keenly aware of how unapproachable his brother is. All of their expectations are weighing down on Dante, instead, and he can't exactly blame them. Vergil had been pronounced incompetent in this field, even before they had placed foot out of Hell. He'd even go as far as to say he's been incompetent in this field even before they placed foot out of their mothers _womb._

 

If Dante was emotionally constipated, then Vergil has been backed up for _years._ He knows his twin would rather dive headfirst back into the Underworld, than sit down to have a heart to heart with his brother. Whether Dante shared the sentiment or not, is up for debate. He knows it's going to be uncomfortable, and awkward and -- they just _didn't do_ talking. Least of all _Vergil_. And Dante doesn't really want to do this either -- they haven't exactly interacted with each other _properly_ in over twenty years. _Twenty years._ The thought alone has Dante reeling in damn near hysteria.

 

"Dante, you need to talk to him. You've got a ticking time bomb just _waiting_ to go off _in your damn office_." Nero seethes on the other side, stressing the urgency of the matter. He knows the kid thinks he's merely being difficult about this.

 

Dante exhales loudly through his nose. He's really not. If anything, its Vergil who's being difficult. "Look, kid -- Nero. I know. But we haven't _really_ seen each other since before you were _born_. This is easier said than done. And believe me, he's not making this easy." 

 

The line goes silent, Dante assumes Nero is truly letting that sink in. Digesting his family's fucked up history.

 

Nero mirrors the sigh, although softer. Then inhales as if to speak, just to go taciturn once more, for a moment longer. Possibly in the attempt to carefully re-gather his scattered thoughts. Rearrange the mess Dante just made with one accurately aimed, emotionally loaded bowling ball, leaving Nero to pick up the pins of what he knows. And Dante grants him his moment of reverie, letting himself lean back into his chair, eyes turning upwards to stare at the spinning ceiling fan, bracing himself. 

 

Before he can begin to wonder if the connection died, Nero speaks, breaking the silence with the unrelenting determination to fix this. "You can't let him keep hiding. Who knows what he's up to. I do not -- and I cannot stress this enough -- want to fight anymore disgusting roots for the next couple of _decades._ If I have to shove myself into _one more_ demon tree --" 

 

"I know, kid." Dante interrupts him, before it can flow into a long winded rant on how disgusting that whole ordeal was. "Trust me, I don't want to see another demon tentacle for a long while either." It manages to rip a snort out of the kid. Dante allows himself the smile that wants to tug at his lips. His nephew. His little punk-ass of a nephew. Nero really didn't deserve to get dragged into Dante's shit.

 

"I know, that -- him and I didn't exactly get off on the right foot, what with the bastards --" Nero breathes. Then tries again. "What with him ripping my damn arm off and everything." Dante remains respectully quiet; he knows this is hard for him.

 

"But he's still my dad, I guess." Nero had seen the state V had been in as well. Spent much more time with the dying man than Dante had. "I know, he's a bastard. I _know_ he's tried to _literally_ raise Hell -- multiple times!" He's frustrated. He has every right to be.  "But V had -- I just --" 

 

He knows. Dante knows. 

 

"We spent a month in each others vicinity, we had each others back, I -- I guess it'd be a lie to say we weren't," oh boy, here we go, " _friends_ , I guess. As fucked up as it may be to befriend the guy who tore your limb off and left you for dead. It's been hard, merging my understanding of V, and my understanding of Vergil, but…" 

 

"I get it, Nero. No need to tell me." Dante is not sure how much more he can take. Shit must be serious if it has the brat spilling his heart out to _Dante_ of all people. 

 

Nevertheless. He would try harder. For Nero, if anything.

 

____

 

"Vergil," Dante calls out, knuckles rapping against the chipped wood of his brothers bedroom door. "Come on, I know you're in there -- I can hear you!" 

 

He gets no response, at first. Because of course he doesn't. And it's so damn _frustrating_. What could possibly be so interesting in there, so _time consuming._ He refuses to listen to the little voice in the back of his head. One that sounds suspiciously like Lady. And Trish. And Nero. He's trusting his brother to not fuck this up again.

 

A profound sigh dislodges itself from his lungs. Numbers commence a countdown in his mind, starting at ten.

 

None of the doors had proper locks. Dante had found it unnecessary to instal any on anything but the bathroom doors. It would be easy to enter, to force himself into Vergil's space, till he has no choice but to talk. What thwarts him is the knowledge that a gesture as simple, held the power to break what little trust they've worked on building. Utterly wipe out any progress they've made. Prematurely end the moderately peaceful cohabitation they've established. 

 

That little corner of Devil May Cry was Vergil's territory. Vergil's domain. Dante held no doubts his brother would cut down anyone who dared breach into his space. Leaving Dante at the mercy of his brothers eschewal.

 

He's about to bang his fist against the damned door, when something resembling muffed, annoyed muttering, echoes from inside. Halting him, his fist still raised mid air. He thinks he can faintly hear cursing; the scattering of books, as they fall from someplace high up. A desk maybe. Seconds at most tick by, as he awaits with growing interest and quivering patience.

 

And then the door opens, and there stands his brother. Glance as frigid as ever. Dante almost has half a mind to let his fist come down once more after all. Straight into his brothers face.

 

It's like looking into a mirror. And Dante doesn't like it. He doesn't like it one bit.

 

"Dante." Vergil acknowledges evenly, posture stiff and regal.

 

But his hair is a mess. Longer, just by a bit. Nearly reaching his shoulders and pushed back in a hurry -- probably the moment Dante knocked unexpectedly. There are little tuffs of it hanging against his forehead, and he can practically see his brothers self restraint on the edge of wavering, as he forces himself to not fuss over them right then and there. He's still in his pajamas, Dante notes with amazement. They're wrinkled and one of the buttons half way down is completely done wrong. His face is paler -- more gaunt, the shadows under his eyes seem darker, somehow, more so resembling bruising than the telltale sign of a tired man. On top of it all, his brother seems to have forgone shaving,  five-o'clock shadow making him look scruffy, teasing the border of _unkempt._

 

Vergil looked like an absolute disheveled mess. Dante is not entirely sure if he's successfully reining in the disbelief that's threatening to pull at his features.

 

Biting his tongue, and swiftly curbing the urge to comment, he shoves the plate of warm pizza into his twins chest. Olives, and everything.

 

Vergil grunts, as his hands instinctively latch onto it, before he can think better of it.

 

Cold blue eyes reluctantly remove themselves from Dante's face, trailing downwards, to glare at the food with perplexed disdain. He can see his brother eyeing the three slices of supreme with suspicion -- and then Dante finds himself the giddy witness to the flash of surprise that cracks through his sour expression, when he recognizes the olives.

 

"Don't say I never did anything for ya. Do you know how hard it is to pick the little disgusting things off of melted cheese?" Dante declares, flippantly.

 

Vergil sighs. "Is this all you came here for?" He sounds exhausted.

 

"You haven't come down in a few days. I dragged your sorry ass out of Hell, if I let you die now -- out of starvation of all petty things, the kid will hunt me down and tear me up into itty bitty shreds, till my insides become my outsides."

 

"You do realize we do not actually require human food." 

 

"You can pry pizza, _and sundaes_ , out of my cold dead hands." 

 

"Then: _I do not_ require this sort of substance." Vergil amends. Attempting to abort their interaction, before it can bloom into something longer, requiring the attention he's not willing to relinquish.

 

"The _hell_ you don't. You're half human too. And you have to _eat._ Cause I certainly am not going to just let you roam town to feast on human blood. You've already done enough of that. So human food it is." There's an undertone to Dante's words. A threat. He's dead serious. If his brother starts collecting, _consuming,_ human blood again, Dante _will_ put a stop to it.

 

It does nothing to convince his twin, though. So Dante switches gears.

 

"Come on, you sneak down at all weird hours of the night to help yourself to a serving of cold pizza. I can _hear_ you muttering to yourself about my shit eating habits. Why are you being so difficult right now?"

 

"Difficult -- !?" Vergil echoes, appalled.

 

"Just eat the damn pizza Vergil! Or are we really going to descend into that level of pettiness -- you'll certainly eat cold leftovers, but not the fresh food sitting right under your nose?"

 

Its painfully obvious Vergil isn't in the mood to squabble. The man already moving to shut the door without another word, pizza still in hand. But Dante is quicker. He jams his entire foot between the door and the frame before the older twin can go back into hiding. Biting back the pained howl that almost escapes him when Vergil slams the door with more force than strictly necessary. "Oh no you don't!"

 

"Dante," Vergil warns, body tense, and his lips curled in a snarl. Ready to fight, as always. "What do you want." His twin demands.

 

Dante only offers a one shouldered shrug, accompanied by an eloquent grunt. Though there's nothing casual about the action, nor his posture. "Haven't seen your ugly mug in a while, sue me."

 

Vergil is silent, and Dante can see the cogs slotting and turning behind his gaze. It has his fingers twitching, ready to summon his sword at any wrong move his brother makes. His legs bending at the knees minutely, ready to parry the initial blow. Vergil only smirks, slow and lopsided. Dante thinks this might just be the prelude to another fight. "Miss me, little brother?"

 

Dante has missed him. He wants his brothers attention. And if he'll get it through a fight, then so be it.

 

He calls forth the Devil Sword Dante.

 

____

 

Vergil just grows more and more distant, the more time slips them by, waiting for none. The more Dante fails to speak to him. The more his brother keeps evading him. And Dante is left with the growing dread that slowly grips at his insides, _twisting_ , with something he's been hesitant to acknowledge.

 

Nothing has changed. Not really. His brother isn't really back, not fully. He's here, in body, but in mind -- Dante doesn't know where Vergil has ran off to. And suddenly it hits him just how _inadequate_ he really is as well. How completely and utterly ill equipped they both are, when it comes to this. When it comes to talking about what's _important._  

 

Vergil is slipping through his fingers again. Has been the whole time.

 

____

 

And then, finally, the dam cracks. Breaks. Shatters. It all comes bursting out. Drowning everything in its path.

 

____

 

"You’ve managed to scar yourself, Vergil. Just like you scarred me. Do you even realize how hard that is to do? We're _half Devil, Vergil!_ And you've managed to _scar us both!_ "

 

"Dante - "

 

It had taken another full week for Dante to finally snap. Another attempt at cornering his brother, after days of careful stalking, waiting, for the exact moment his twins guard fell in those few seconds of carelessness. Seconds that would cost him. Little did Vergil know it had consumed the remaining shred of patience Dante still harbored -- had clung onto in the chance he'd get to finally have anything resembling a conversation. All burned away, to nothing but ash beneath the weight of the blazing wildfire that filled him to his core.

 

"No." Dante lets himself breathe, in the unsuccessful attempt to rein himself back in, even if only by a modicum. It doesn't work.

 

"No, I don't want to hear it. Tell me, brother: was it worth it? Was it all really worth it? Did you accomplish a _damn thing_ in your _obsessive_ pursuit?"

 

Vergil doesn't respond. It just serves to aggravate Dante further. And at this point, his mouth is a rolling freight train, gaining speed the more it is left unchecked.

 

"And what about _Nero!_ Huh Vergil? What? You felt the need to initiate him into this _fucked up family?"_ Dante says -- no, he snarls, completely unfettered. 

 

Vergil is holding steadfast, unmoved. It takes every iota of self control still left in him to not SinDT right then and there.

 

"You scarred him, too, you know. Your own damn _son, Vergil!"_

 

He can hear his own voice raising in volume the more he's allowed to carry on -- the more Vergil just stands there, allowing it to happen. Dante is only fuelled by the knowledge that his lungs are devoid of blood, still inflated and working, the Yamato still tied securely to his brothers hip.

 

This conversation had been a long time coming event, exploding suddenly with the force and intensity of years upon years of brewing resentment. Dante knew it was coming, sooner or later. There was only so much pretending they could truly do, before it all caught up with them, leading them right here. Standing in the middle of their wreckage that once was Devil May Cry's office area. Covered in their own blood, each others blood, dirt, sweat, and grime. Just like back when they had been in Hell. They had come to blows again. And Dante has won, this time -- his eyes glowing red, never leaving his brother. As Vergil acts like cornered prey, and Dante takes upon himself the mantle of predator.

 

"Answer me, damn it! For once in our fucking lives Vergil, _talk to me._ "

 

That seems to get a response out of him. It's merely a meager twitch, a minuscule thing at the corner of Vergil's left eye. But it's enough. To Dante, it's enough. 

 

"Was it worth it." He repeats himself, again, softer this time. The fight having left him the moment Vergil acknowledged him. And Dante can't help but feel like a starved beast, waiting desperately for his brother to throw him a bone.

 

"No."

 

The answer doesn't take him by surprise. No. It just rips something ugly from deep within him. From the festering wound inside him, left to grow infected. His fist goes through the drywall. He can't find it in himself to care. He doesn't care anymore. And at the same time, he cares so damn much. Human emotions could be an ugly thing.

 

Vergil actually flinches at the sound. Dante feels no pity.

 

They got somewhere, he can't help but think -- _hope,_ as the air leaves his lungs in one ragged exhale. Feet dragging against the wooden floor, as he remove himself from the cramped space. Dante turns to leave.

 

Vergil doesn't stop him.

 

____

 

Despondent. Vergil looked utterly _despondent_ , it finally clicks with Dante.

 

____

 

Things go mostly back to normal, after their little altercation. With the only difference being Vergil. 

 

He's out and about more often now, taking jobs with Dante, and sometimes Nero tags along. They kill, get paid, move onto the next job. It's easy enough, they were never the talk about your feelings type, and never will be. Though even Dante understands its necessary right now, for them. But he doesn't push it again. He knows they've reached an impasse for the time being; he knows his brother has a lot of thinking to do, so Dante lets him. They've made progress, and that's all the Legendary Devil Hunter can ask for.

 

Vergil isn't avoiding everyone anymore -- even growing bold enough to claim his very own spot on one of the old and worn couches in his office. Dante has awoken many times to find his brother sprawled out there, already dressed, and groomed, and ready for the day. Flipping through paperwork and bills alike at the crack ass of dawn, with effortless nonchalance. It's such a mundane and domestic sight, Dante can't help but be caught off guard every time he's bared witness to it. His brother is here, living with him, in the corner of world he's cut out for himself, and his family.

 

It seems Vergil has calmed with age, as has Dante. And perhaps his brothers time as V was partially to thank for his newfound mildness. It's a good thing, of course, Dante is thankful for the downright _tranquil_ moments between hunts -- a balm on his old and tired soul. But something about it still feels off. 

 

Like something isn't quite right with the picture Vergil is presenting him with. And Dante is still struggling to put his finger on it -- to put _words_ to this feeling of unease he's been picking up from his brother ever since they left Hell. It's as if the mildness has completely taken over him. _Consuming him._ Dragging him down into its jaws little by little. They still spar, of course. Still fight. But when they are not, Vergil seems perfectly content doing paperwork, or flipping through whatever new book he's managed to unearth from Dante's dusty collection. Sometimes he'll thumb through the jukebox, searching for anything remotely within his tastes, only to give up not long afterwards. Grumbling under his breath about Dante's preference in music. It's not exactly abnormal, Vergil has always been slightly better at keeping his stronger emotions in check. And he'll always choose books over Dante, he's learned to live with that. It's the blandness that bothers him, the borderline escapism. He doesn't remember his brother ever reading so damn much.

 

It's only on hunts, where Vergil's eyes will light up with that fire they've shared ever since they were kids. It's only when they are amongst the carnage, and demon viscera, the spray of blood soaking their clothes, that Vergil comes to life. It's the only damn thing that seems to drive him -- that seems to _motivate him._ And it certainly arises a concern in Dante. Vergil's downright withdrawal from the human world can't be healthy. It might have been irrelevant to him in the past two decades, but he's _living_ in it now, he cannot keep avoiding that fact. He's finding his respite in demon slaying, and the very real possibility that its the only thing Vergil _knows_ hits him like a truck with Nico at the wheel. 

 

They can't keep basking in plain denial. They're being avoidant again. Letting life steer them wherever the wind may take them. Discarding one day after the other. 

 

They haven't learned their lesson, yet, it seems. But Dante is trying, damn it. He's trying.

 

____

 

"Hey, Vergil," Dante calls, from the other side of the office, where he's sprawled out on the opposite couch. 

 

He's fully expecting his brother to ignore him. But Vergil must be feeling sociable, because he answers with a noncommittal hum, as he flips to the next page in his book.

 

Dante takes that as an invitation to continue. 

 

"You think dad knew he'd have a whole damn cult worshiping him as their God?" Vergil's fingers freeze mid page flip. Dante keeps on. "Can you even imagine it? Our dad. God. I know he saved humans and all -- but this is the same man who once broke a mirror and upon being told its seven years of bad luck, screamed: bring it on!" 

 

Vergil is completely and utterly silent; he's even stopped breathing, going rigid. Dante blinks, watching curiously. Something about the statement seems to have startled his brother. Like it's finally hitting him, just how _weird_ the notion is. Their dad. Their idiot dad who'd sneak them an extra candy bar after their mother had said no more sugar; the same man who'd fall to the ground dramatically, whenever the twins would tackle him in their excitement.

 

Eventually Vergil gives up all pretense that he hasn't completely lost his mark in the book on his lap. Instead lifting his gaze to meet Dante's. The crease of his brow and the frenzy in his eyes, tells Dante everything he needs to know regarding the line of thought currently wreaking havoc in his older brothers head.

 

"Wait," Dante says with sudden urgency, as something much bigger finally dawns on him. "Does that make us, like, Jesus or something?"

 

That, seems to spur the other into responding. Vergil clamps down on a horrified laugh, and then he _snorts_. 

 

"More like Cain and Abel, if you want my two cents on the matter." He's smirking. The bastard is smirking, one brow raised tauntingly. It rips a matching smirk from Dante as well.

 

"Well you've certainly stabbed me enough times."

 

"And yet," Vergil starts, his voice filled with mirth, "you do not die." 

 

Dante's smirk widens into a grin, his eyes crinkling at the sides, beaming at having succeeded in lifting Vergil's mood. Even if only for a moment.

 

Vergil shakes his head in fond disbelief, a small content smile taking permanent residence on his lips. His head tilts downwards again, eyes searching for where he had left off before the surprisingly welcome distraction. But Dante can't stop watching him. Eventually his grin subsides, morphing into a comfortable and content tilt to his lips. His brother seems to notice his audience.

 

"Is there something wrong?" 

 

"No, it's nothing. I've just -- I've missed you." Dante says, in an endorphin fueled moment of weakness.

 

Vergil doesn't comment on it.

 

____

 

"Vergil," 

 

Dante is first awoken by the sound of the heavy dual front doors to his shop opening. Then stirred into curiosity by heavy booted footsteps. Concern trickles at the edges of his consciousness, upon hearing Nero call out for his father.

 

Silence fills the entirety of Devil May Cry.

 

And the thick, suffocating unease that fills the space is uncomfortable enough to knock the grogginess right out of him.

 

"Vergil -- father…” Nero says, with surprising softness. “Dad.” He settles on.

 

The kid has always been much more confrontational than the two of them have ever been. What he lacked in the emotional department, he made up for in determination. Simple childlike wants and uncomplicated needs, such as having a family to call his own, were what drove him. And Dante can relate.

 

Nero was on the edge of a precipice, dark and unknown, staring straight down, into the endless blackness. The only thing dividing him from the family he's always fantasized about having. Dante knows he wants to let himself fall, throw himself into the midst of it all. Charge headfirst into the problem, as he's done with many others before. But he also has the awareness necessary to know this one was not his battle. Perceptive enough to keep his distance, to wait out the brewing storm. 

 

Caring enough to be insistent, to an obnoxious degree. Until it consumed the perceptiveness, drowned the awareness.

 

The kid hones in straight to the point. And Dante can't blame him, with how elusive Vergil has been lately.

 

"You need to talk to Dante." 

 

"I assure you, we've been speaking nearly on a daily basis."

 

It's not the answer Nero wants. And he's very vocal about it, in his justified ire.

 

"Can the two of you stop being so fucking stubborn, for _two seconds._ And work out your issues in a civilized manner _._ " He thinks he can hear the kid shaking with the restraint he's forcing upon himself. 

 

Vergil doesn’t take well to being _scolded._ By his own son, at that. Dante closes his eyes again, offering a prayer to the skies above, that they’ll leave his shop intact once this is over. “And you’ve decided to come all the way out here, just to berate me? You’ve got gall, I will concede that much. But you do not know what you speak of, child.” Vergil chides in cold retaliation.

 

“Gall?!” 

 

Dante’s prayers grow more urgent.

 

“It is best if you do not meddle with matters that do not concern you -- “

 

“That do not _concern me?!_ You're joking, right? _Father._ " The kid drives the point home.

 

Oh. Dante can see the eyebrow raising on Vergil's face, even with the concrete flooring separating them.

 

"This is not something you can fix by incessantly _whining_ like a bull headed toddler."

 

The sudden echo of something big, heavy, and metal hitting wood makes Dante nearly reach for Ebony, laying beside him. And Ivory, resting beneath his pillow.

 

_Please don't rev, please don't rev…_

 

"He _cares_ about you, you know?!" The very obvious: ' _we both do',_ goes unsaid. "What about you, huh? Do you even give a shit?" Again, Nero leaves himself out of the equation. Self preservation strong in this one.

 

It's a question, however, to which Dante would love to hear the answer. After years upon years of wondering, of _doubting._ If Vergil truly does even care. If he's ever cared. Or if he's currently just playing along, Dante and Nero having proven themselves the stronger Devil in this equation. 

 

What that could imply. 

 

Will Vergil suddenly emerge from his self imposed confinement with some new form of power? Has he taken his defeat as a challenge towards achieving redemption? To establish himself as the stronger Devil? To what new extents will his brother take it this time? What will the damage be.

 

 _Devil May Cry_ gets shrouded in another suffocating interim of silence.

 

There's a tense moment where Dante wonders if he's going to have to break up a fight. He's barely awake, hasn't even had the time to put proper clothes on, let alone get up to piss -- and now his instincts are on high alert, searching for any indication that his intervention is needed. And the more the silence stretches on, the faster Dante is untangling himself from the sheets.

 

"Our old family home," suddenly, Vergil's voice fills the area. The abrupt shift in tone enough to freeze him in place. The cadence carefully even, but with an echo of nostalgia that prods at the growing anxiety deep within Dante's gut.

 

"Resided on quite a bit of land, on the outskirts of the city." 

 

Nero does not utter a single word.

 

"There had been a creek, not far from the house. It ran down the hill, to eventually grow larger, turning into a river; the same that runs through Redgrave." A beat of undisturbed silence. Vergil breathes in. "Mother had always warned us to steer clear of it, stories of drowning children plagued her mind -- she was a new parent, mother of twins at that. We were mere children; I remember, it had been not long after our sixth birthday. It was a pleasant day, the sun was out, the air was warm, and we had finished our homework for the week. So we ventured outside, wooden practise swords pressed to our chests as we eagerly stumbled our way out of the house. It had rained for two weeks straight. We were _restless_."

 

Dante remembers this story; the memory is blurry in some areas, and he's missing bits and pieces of it. But he knows this story. And he can't believe Vergil is openly sharing it. It has his heart pounding in his chest, running on the adrenaline that's pumping through him in anticipation. The unexpected scenario playing out downstairs in his office is unknown territory, and Dante can't even begin to fathom what he should expect. 

 

His feet are already shifting towards the edge of the bed, then touching the floor as he sits up. But he doesn't dare stand. The floorboards are old and squeaky, Dante knows if he puts his weight on them, it will just alert the two bodies below. 

 

So he sits, and listens.

 

"We were terrible children." Vergil admits. He can hear the fond smirk in his voice. "Always getting into trouble, always taunting and encouraging one another to do something idiotic." Another pause, as presumably, Vergil collects himself for the next part. "But that day, we were just plain foolish. You see, the creek wasn't just a creek anymore. The heavy rain had bloated it, turning the harmless shallow waters much, much deeper. Deeper than a couple of children could have anticipated." 

 

"But I was curious." Dante distinctly remembers them both being curious. "So we went down to the creek, to watch the water run. And then we fought."

 

"Dad…?" Nero says, unsure. He has a feeling the kid knows where this is going. They really were a couple of misbehaved brats.

 

"Dante fell. He was winning, I got frustrated. Let it take over me. I dropped my sword -- hit him with my fists instead. We were too close to the water."

 

The words make him shake his head. He knows the idiot still blames himself for that one. He knows he's never going to be able to change his mind. They had both been careless, nothing but dumb kids. You can't blame a six year old for almost dying; they don't even know what that fully means yet. Their mother had been livid, but she hadn't blamed them either. No, she had merely dried them off, dressed them back up in clean pajamas, her face ghostly pale, her mouth pressed into a thin line. Not a word had come from her lips. Not a sound. She left them to their room. Grounded, for the foreseeable future. They could hear her broken cries, later that night. Ugly sobs that echoed across the house, as the weight of what had happened finally caught up to her.

 

He's about to finally push himself up, so that he may get ready for the day as well, make his exuberant entrance before shit went south, as it always tends to do with them -- but then Vergil continues, and Dante is startled into stillness once more.

 

He doesn't remember the next part.

 

"I panicked. I was young, and naive. And I panicked. So I threw myself into the water as well, chasing after him. Things are … blurry, at best. But I can still vividly recall the frigid water hitting my face, as I dove under. I couldn't see -- I could only reach out, in a blind attempt to hopefully grasp onto him. I did. I remember being so _driven_ , so one track minded. I had one goal, and the rest be damned. There was no time for absurdities such as shock, or fear. I can recall with ease, how little care I felt towards my own well being. I pushed him above myself, as I sank deeper. I remember pushing him as hard as my arms could, towards the surface, as his weight forced mine downwards. But I didn't care. I knew, eventually, we'd both sink. There was only so much I could do. So much I could withstand, before eventually we both drowned. We were six year olds. Small, frail, weak six year olds. We were barely skirting the edge of coming into our demonic healing"

 

"But then something was lifting Dante, pulling him upwards, and out of the murky darkness. At the time, it hadn't clicked with me that his face had been above the water. That he was screaming for her, the entire time. But I was sated. Fulfilled with the knowledge that he had made it to the surface."

 

Boots hit the ground, buckles clicking with each step. "I was perfectly content to float there. And drown. Until I felt something grasp onto me, too. Mother had to drag me to the surface by my hair." Vergil stops pacing. "Needles to say she was _livid._ "

 

Nero is still silent. Horrified, maybe.

 

Dante realizes, then, that the story was for Nero, as much as it had been for him.

 

____

 

"Vergil…"

 

The name tears from his lips, unbidden. Mumbled to himself, alone in the dead of the night. The strongest bottles he owns have been dragged out again, pried from the back of the dusty cabinet in the corner bar. 

 

He's already on his seventh drink.

 

"Why are you so damn stubborn… Damn it."

 

Dante remembers the Nightmares. Vergil's Nightmares to be precise. The trio had gone out with a fight, ultimately yielding to Dante's judgement. They had done it out of odd affection-like fraternity towards V -- towards Vergil. 

 

Dante knows what they were. He had recognized the avian immediately. Then came the Shadow, followed by Nightmare. Dante remembers them from long ago, and fighting them had brought back memories he didn't care to unearth from the dark deep depths of his mind. Memories best left to the past. But Vergil -- how long had those nightmares consumed him. How long had he lived with the aftermath of Mundus' forceful control. It had been nine years, between Vergil's fall, and Vergil's death by Dante's own hand. How long had he been in Mundus' grasp. Torn apart, over and over, to then be forced back together till the Demon King was finally appeased.

 

The nightmares were dead. Dante had slayed them with his own hands. They were dead, but Vergil was still struggling. Once the desperate delirium had been dealt with, what was left was -- _this._ What was left was this. And Dante thinks he finally understands now. Dante understands, from a time back when he had hid away from the world as well. Back in a time where he had grown mild as well. A mellowness that was _wrong_ , and all consuming. That had taken over him, conquered every corner of his mind, till there was nothing left. No other option but to trudge through life with the aid of a few terrible coping mechanisms, and the drive to cleanse the world of every demon. Cleanse his soul clean of the rage and regret, the hatred he felt towards the demons that dared take his mother. The world -- the kingdom that had dared take his brother. His only remaining family, back when he hadn't been aware of his nephews existence.

 

Dante suddenly understands. It clicks, falling into place so _easily_ , and everything suddenly slots right where it belongs. The narrative breaking down into clarified pragmatics. He can't believe it's taken him so long. But Vergil is not Dante. Vergil was not following within the steps of Dante's alcohol induced coping mechanism. No, he has always been more efficient, more practical. Instead opting to simply revert back to what he knew. To what he could work with, to what he could manipulate to his own needs.

 

His brother was casting his humanity aside once more. This time not in the literal sense -- no, he had already tried that, after all.

 

It all makes much more sense now.

 

____

 

"Vergil," upon being called, the older twin lifts his head, paper work momentarily set aside. Dante wasn't actually expecting to grab his attention so effortlessly. For a moment he can only blink, gaping slightly. Words escaping him. _What was it he was going to say again?_

 

"Yes, Dante?" Comes the slight push, when Dante has yet to carry on. Vergil's posture is relaxed. Inquiring brows raised, jaw slack enough for a sliver of white to peek through his lips. He's expecting an answer, and being oddly patient about it. Huh.

 

This is new. Vergil hasn't been this agreeable since -- well, since _never._ Concisely, Dante speaks, lest he invoke the beasts ire with something as petty as purposely not getting to the point: "Kid's coming over for a couple of days. Just thought I'd let you know. Yanno, so you can get a hold of yourself before Nero gets here." Won't stop him from mocking him for it, though.

 

Something like trepidation crosses his brothers features. _Still doing this, huh._ "And don't even think about hiding, bro. This is a hill we're going to have to get over sooner or later." 

 

"Wouldn't dream of it." Vergil says. Through gritted teeth.

 

"Course not! You've got twenty five years of fathering to make up for." 

 

His brother gives him a withering glare. Dante reciprocates with a boisterous laugh.

 

Inevitably Nero would grow tired of his father's neglect. Eventually Vergil was going to have to grow accepting of the fact that he is a father now.

 

 

____

 

"Dad."

 

Dante doesn't mean to eavesdrop again. He really doesn't. But his brewing curiously has him automatically tuning in on the conversation. The twinge of concern he can't help but feel upon stumbling across his brother and nephew in the midst of interacting, is too great to ignore. Nero might be a grown man, but he'll always be a kid in Dante's eyes. Always be his nephew. And although Vergil will always be his brother, Dante knows his twin is not the most tactful. Bordering the line of cruel more often than not.

 

"Is uhm --" Nero mumbles, clearing his throat, awkwardness settling in. "Everything okay?"

 

Vergil makes a contemplative sound. Trying to gauge Nero's motives, most likely. "Why wouldn't it be?"

 

"You don't exactly seem like you've been integrating that well, in uh -- normal human society."

 

Dante really had to commend the kid for his ambition. Vergil has always been a tough nut to crack, and it seems Nero is extremely determined to pry him open, to get him talking.

 

"I assure you I'm -- _integrating_ just fine."

 

"That's not what Dante said --"

 

"Dante is wrong."

 

Silence follows. Interrupted by what sounded suspiciously like a derisive snort. Dante pins it on Nero. 

 

"You know its okay if -- if you're struggling. I can't say I really know much about you," ' _and who's fault is that'_ is most likely -- definitely running through the kids mind, "but you haven't exactly spent a lot of time up here, have you. Amongst humans?"

 

"Nero." Vergil says. A warning. One best heeded.

 

"I'm just saying, it's okay if you --"

 

"Your concern is completely unwarranted. Not to mention unwanted."

 

Nero sighs. "Must you always be so damn prickly?"

 

"Must you always come here in search of a fight?"

 

"Thought that was the only way you stubborn bastards got anything through your thick skulls."

 

Dante resents that statement.

 

"Insolent. Absolutely --"

 

"I'm not here to fight you, you know. Why can't we just talk. Like a normal family, for _once."_

 

That's where Dante tunes out. He had come here for a reason, after all. That reason being one too many beers; one too small bladder for the entire six pack he'd just torn his way through. 

 

The muffled echoes still manage to reach his ears, even from within the tight confines of the tiny bathroom. Subhuman hearing coming in handy, on occasion. Dante is mostly looking out for any particularly aggressive jab, any taunt pushed too far that might jumpstart a fight. A gunshot, a rev. The list goes on. He just really hopes he won't have to rush out of here with his pants still undone if a fight really does break out. He doesn't think he'll ever forgive them if he trips over himself with his dick still out.

 

Was he being too… Overprotective? Huh. 

 

Dante is intimately aware of his nephews strength. Fully aware of his brothers sturdiness. The man had returned from the _dead,_ after all. And Nero was no damsel in distress, no child needing protection. And yet, Dante is overwhelmed by the urge to grasp onto the slow and delicate reforging of their once broken family. Carefully stepping through the field of landmines that separates them all. Wary of setting of a chain of events that would always, undoubtedly end in blood, and hurt, and a torn glove.

 

Briefly, Dante wonders if Nero had felt the same, back at the very top of the Qliphoth. When he had forcefully shoved his newly Triggered self between his father and his uncle, with the vicious promise of putting an end to their perpetual attempts at fratricide.

 

In his defence, they had all been cresting that adrenaline wave of violence. Devil's unleashed upon the empty ruins of a wrecked city. They had not abided by normal every day rules. There was no property damage to worry about, no delicate humans to be mindful of.

 

Now, though, in the admittedly cramped space of the Devil May Cry, Dante can feel the rush of anxiety wash him over once more.

 

He sighs, then flushes, turning the tap on to quickly rinse his hands. Whilst lost in thought, the space had grown silent again. It seems at some point Nero had left, the discussion having resolved itself with a lack of bloodshed Dante was proud of.

 

He was starting to sound like Nero, wasn't he.

 

When Dante steps out of the bathroom, drying his hands on his pants, Vergil is waiting. Because of course he's been aware of Dante's presence the entire time. 

 

"You were eavesdropping again." Is the first damn thing out of his mouth.

 

"The kid's right, you know." Dante remarks. Ignoring the accusation, as he steps out from the dark corridor that leads down to the service bathroom.

 

Vergil shoots him a pale eyed, unimpressed look, from where he's sitting. A stack of paperwork balanced precariously on his lap. Dante pays the look no mind.

 

"You're not exactly embracing the human way of life."

 

"Our human blood does not just automatically _omit_ the fact that we are half Devil as well."

 

"No offence, but I think you've done enough of the whole living like a Devil thing."

 

Vergil rolls his eyes. Dante saunters over, spinning on his heels, to then let himself freefall backwards and onto the couch. Sprawling out beside his brother, who merely grunts, but does not comment when Dante deliberately throws an arm around the back of the furniture, testing Vergil's personal bubble.

 

The heavy bags beneath his brothers eyes are still there. Whether due to lack of sleep, or a deficiency in every single nutrient, demon blood included, Dante isn't sure. His skin still retains that unhealthy pallor he's been sporting since the moment he had become whole again. And the way his shoulders slightly hunch in on themselves, only by a bit, yet enough for Dante to notice, looks completely out of place on his twin. Defiling his meticulous posture. Uncharacteristic, in a way that pulls at Dante's insides. 

 

Did his vest look a bit looser, or was it just his mind playing tricks on him? Was the lack of proper nourishment the reason for the apparent loss in weight? Can Devil hybrids even starve to begin with? Dante's surely never gone hungry, his massive appetite for things such as pizza, and various other junk foods, ensured overly frequent meals. Paired with the raw surge of power that thrummed through his veins after a satisfying hunt, the demon blood appeasing his Devil, Dante can't say he hasn't been well fed. Was Vergil not eating enough? Is this due to Dante's ban on human blood? Vergil can't possibly be that picky. Can he? A man that ate cold leftovers couldn't be that picky, after all.

 

The questions really only serve to unfold a multitude of new issues they're going to have to eventually acknowledge. For now, though, they remain in Dante's to do list.

 

"Are you quite done?" Vergil asks -- no, demands. Raising a brow, not overly fond of Dante's scrutiny. _Got something to hide, Vergil?_

 

It elicits a suspicious hum from Dante. Giving Vergil one last once over, now that he's not stealing glances. Seems like he's done observing for the time being. "Come on Verge, you've done nothing but brood in your room for months on end. Like some sort of teenager."

 

A sheet of paper gets presented to him, held there by one of Vergil's hands, directly in Dante's face. His brothers other hand still in the process of signing off a check. Most likely to pay off an overdue bill. Dante grabs the offered sheet with a sigh, eyes quickly skimming it over with very little interest. Something about loud vehicles outside Devil May Cry, past the hours permitted, resulting in some fine. Dante doesn't really care. He holds a hand out for the pen Vergil's currently using, and his brother hands it over without much of a fuss. He smooths out the paper onto his thigh, sloppily signing an approximation of his full name onto the appropriate dotted line. Kinda.

 

"Doesn't this get boring? Doing this every day?"

 

Vergil pauses. Lifting his head to level him with a bland look. "This is your shop, Dante. This is your paperwork, technically. Which, allow me to remind you, brother, is pretty imperative to the smooth running of your establishment." It's his turn to hold his hand out, silently requesting the pen be returned to him.

 

"I guess that's what I've got you for, big bro." Dante flicks it between his fingers once. Then hands it over.

 

The white hair atop his brothers head dips forward as well, when Vergil folds over himself again to sign off another document. Soft locks finding it harder and harder to stay in their trademark style the more it is left to grow, falling into his brothers eyes. Vergil huffs, in the useless attempt to remove them from his line of sight. Of course it does nothing more than merely lift them away for a second, before they are right back in his face. Either Vergil is exercising a substantial amount of self restraint, or he just doesn't care. 

 

"Hey, your hair is getting pretty long."

 

Vergil's reply is a non-committal hum. Nothing more. Dante does wonder if his brother knows what he looks like, right now, like this. If he's aware Dante knows. The impassive look, the glares, the snark, the sneers. They do nothing to mitigate his borderline pathetic state. 

 

"We should cut it."

 

"Right now?"

 

"Well, maybe later. Isn't it bothering you? I thought you hated looking alike."

 

The pen stops again. As Vergil frowns down at the inked letters. "We're twins, Dante. We've looked alike from the day we were conceived."

 

"Yeah I know. But you were always so particular about your hair."

 

His brother certainly held no qualms about pausing mid fight just to push the locks back, if it meant not looking like Dante. Honestly he's surprised Vergil hasn't already obliterated the extra inches. Surprised Vergil is so unbothered by his current appearance in general. But this is how they've lived, ever since returning from Hell. With Vergil doing something so concerningly out of character, and Dante urgently analyzing it from every single speculative angle.

 

"I'm not letting _you_  cut it."

 

"Jeeze, fine. What about one of the ladies?"

 

Vergil appears very skeptical at the suggestion. Dante doesn't exactly blame him. "I think, after everything, it would be rather anticlimactic to die at the hands of scissors."

 

It rips a snort from Dante. Maybe they can deal with that at a later time. When Vergil isn't buried under the endless paperwork Dante has been avoiding since he's opened the damn shop. 

 

He has other, more pressing matters to deal with, at the moment. Things he can hope to amend with ease. His brother permitting, of course. Matters such as that sliver of space, between Vergil's vest and his arm. The stiff cloth folding in on itself, leaving a gap where it can no longer cling to flesh, as it once did. It's not an enormous gap, just enough for it to be modestly noticeable. At least to Dante, who has been taking notes of every little difference he can spot in his brother. And this is one he does not care for, not in the slightest. It reminds him too much of a man once named 'V'. Thin, sickly, dying V. And although Vergil has not quite reached that point yet, Dante is going to stomp this out before it spreads out like a wild fire he can no longer contain. 

 

Vergil wasn't weak, nor sickly. No, his twin could still force Dante to tap out of a fight. Vergil could still absolutely demolish demons multiple times his own size. Could massacre hordes upon hordes without seemingly breaking a sweat. They've been on plenty of hunts together, Dante has kept a close eye on his brothers performance. And while human blood was off limits, the abundance of demon blood should have been enough to sustain him. Yet the evidence laid out before him told Dante otherwise.

 

He's going to begin rectifying that immediately.

 

With a quick and efficient dig within the endless pockets of his coat, Dante's resurfaces with a candy bar he knew he'd find. Holding it laxly, as he reads over the label. Some peanut butter, caramel, gooey mess. Apparently a dark chocolate variant. Not important, he knows Vergil will always be fond of chocolate, no matter the type. It was one of his brothers rare forms of indulgence, ever since they were kids. Expensive pralines, or gas station candy, it made no difference to Vergil.

 

The current candy bar had belonged to Nero, before Dante swiped it off of his nephew. And now he extends it to Vergil, concealing the worry that wants to crawl it's way into his expression with a smug and self satisfied smirk. Waving the prized chocolate in the air, away from his twin. 

 

Vergil's head turns at the crinkling sound of the wrapper, to then regard him as though he has suddenly sprouted a second head. Brows creasing in disbelief at Dante's childishness. It doesn't last very long, however. Before he knows it, Vergil himself gives in to the childish charade, quickly reaching over his brother to openly snatch the treat from Dante's fingers. 

 

And Dante can do nothing more than merely watch, as Vergil hastily tears the wrapper open with acerbic acceptance, and then proceeds to shove no less than half of it directly into his mouth. Chewing viciously.

 

Not even Vergil was spared from the shared family trait of having the worst sweet tooth.

 

"Christ, Verge. It's like you haven't eaten in days." 

 

Shit, for all he knew his words held some form of truth. Over the months they've been living together, Dante had grown into the habit of purposely leaving leftovers in the fridge. For his brother to later find, when the man would wander downstairs in the middle of the night in search of food. It was Dante's own inconspicuous way of caring. A way to keep tabs on his brother. And yesterday's leftovers are still in the fridge, untouched. So is the pizza from the day before.

 

They're eventually going to have to talk about it. Properly, this time. Either Vergil was going to have to start consuming more human food, or he was going to have to take a bigger fill of demon blood. 

 

For now, he momentarily forces his growing concern aside. Reaching upwards with a hand, gesturing vaguely at his own beard. "You uh. Got a little bit of --"

 

Vergil frowns. And then, to Dante's utter shock, he proceeds to wipe the smear of caramel from the side of his mouth. With his sleeve.

 

It takes every fervent ounce of self control in Dante to school his expression into one of indifference. Not sure if Vergil would take the horrified guffaw that nearly ripped from his throat in stride.

 

His brother waits, half eaten candy bar in one hand, pen in the other. Looking at Dante expectantly. As Dante desperately feigned indifference. 

 

Oh. "Yeah uh -- you got it." 

 

It seems to be the right answer to the correctly assumed question. And Dante is caught between thoroughly enjoying this side of his brother, and the roil of worry that starts in his belly, and spreads through his chest. 

 

Dante's lips press into a thin line. Breathing in through his nose.

 

"We're going to have to talk about this eventually, Vergil."

 

"Not now," Vergil mutters. Blue gaze cast downwards again. The soft fluttering of paper filling the subsequent silence.

 

Dante lets it go. As he watches his older brother bite into the candy bar once more. 

 

____

 

Vergil's stare is distant. Long, vacant look cast towards nothing in particular. Unfocused blue, glazed with the somber weight of whatever is currently tearing through the vast plains of his brother's mind. Lost somewhere. In some other land, some other world. Where Dante can't follow.

 

Dante has been watching him for the past fifteen minutes now, give or take. Stopped peering at him from above the latest issue of _Bullet Babes_ five minutes ago, when he switched from being somewhat cautious, to blatantly staring his brother down. Magazine now currently spread out on his lap and long forgotten.

 

He was being graced with Vergil's spectre-like presence today. Vergil, who has yet to retreat to his room, oddly enough. Instead he's been Idly lounging at the bar, of all places. Arms resting on the wooden counter, feet propped up on the bar stools footrest, and Yamato held upright between his thighs. Dante half expected to find a glass full of some kind of poison in front of him -- his brother nursing some kind of drink, when he first descended the stairs, groggily and almost tripping. It was a bar after all, and Dante certainly kept it well stocked at all times. ( _You never knew when life would hit you a bit too hard, and you'd need something to take the edge off.)_ But there hadn't been a glass in sight then, and there has yet to be as of now. His brother hadn't moved an inch. His brother was sober. Therefore he should be alert. Attentive. _Aware_ of Dante incessant gaze.

 

And yet, Vergil still hasn't noticed. He's merely sat there, deathly still, save for the slow even rising and falling of his chest, indicating that yes, he's still alive. Staring into the void. Unphased under Dante's unyielding scrutiny. It's unsettling; weird. Dante doesn't like it -- but he'll be damned if he doesn't capitalize on such an opportunity. Served to him on nothing short of the most intricate of silver platters.

 

It can't be helped. Brotherly urges and all that. The chair is utterly silent, when Dante pushes it back, as he slowly rises to his feet with great care as to not draw any unwanted attention to himself. He keeps his eyes trained on his brother at all times. Just in case. Doesn't move from where he's standing, not right away. Three seconds tick by, as Dante lips silently move, spelling out each individual _Mississippi_.

 

Vergil doesn't so much as twitch. Barely even _blinking._ His entire awareness, human and superhuman alike, still held hostage to his mind's wandering. Oblivious to his younger brothers mischief. It tugs a smirk at the corner of Dante's mouth. 

 

The hunt is declared safe to commence.

 

He's not the stealthiest, by any stretch of the definition -- at least not by Vergil's standards. He should have noticed him by now. The fact that he hasn't gets carefully folded into a neat note, for him to revisit at a later time. When he isn't about to dangerously poke the wasps nest. Later, when he's alone to ruminate, and revisit all of his newly acquired bits of information. Overthinking it now would surely get him killed. At least, it should. Dante is not sure what to make of the doubt. This was Vergil, after all. Very _deadly_ Vergil.

 

His otherwise heavy boots are as light as a feather on the old wooden floors. Metal loops barely scraping against metal buckles. Footsteps careful and calculated. Squeaky planks swiftly and skillfully avoided, as he skirts around the large desk. Making his way over to where his brother sits lost in thought, completely, and blissfully, unaware.

 

So far, the only other sign of life his brother has given, has been in the form of a soft _sniff_ , and a wrinkle of his nose 

 

Dante pauses, once he's reached his prey. Nearly hovering over his seated form. A frown momentarily dampening the sly grin that's been splitting his face ever since he was struck with this awful, exhilarating idea; eyes fixed on the back of Vergil's head. Something is very, very wrong, if Vergil hasn't already sensed him. If the sound of his clothes rustling, and the chime of his blood -- of his presence slowly closing in on him didn't alert him in the slightest.

 

He permits himself a moment to openly study him in mystified awe. Resisting the urge to give himself away over poorly concealed worry. This is _wrong._ He should definitely have a devil arm currently lodged between his ribs, somewhere. A few fingers missing, maybe. A bloody stump, where his head should be. He should turn away while he still can. Pretend this never happened. It'll just be one more thing in the long list of things they need to talk about. This one in particular, high up on the priority list. 

 

Little changes in character, moping around, forgetting to eat like a human, Dante can sort of handle. This, though. This is unacceptable. They're hunters, both of them. Vergil had signed his name on that roster the moment he had taken his first Devil May Cry job. They dance with danger, and death nearly on a daily basis. Where one wrong move held the potential of getting you killed. Because they _aren't immortal._ They aren't immortal. Dante knows. No matter how much they thrive on the feeling of _power,_ and the _adrenaline_ that rushes through them like a drug, when they tear through demons the size of buildings with practised blows, and precise cuts _._ They can still die. The same way the countless demons they've slayed had died beneath their swords.

 

Dante indulges regardless. Seizing the opportunity. His Devil unruly and on edge. Screaming: _danger. Do not touch the demon. You know better._

 

He pokes Vergil anyway. Right between his ribs, below his armpit.

 

A huge mistake.

 

He's barely allowed the time to _blink,_ let alone breathe, or call upon his own sword. Vergil is up, in an odd, sloppy crouch, Yamato's blade pressed against Dante's throat. Hard enough to draw blood. Careful enough for this to be a _warning._ If Dante so much as flinches, he will decapitate himself upon his brothers sword, and Dante is rather fond of his head.

 

Vergil's eyes are cold. Distant. There's no recognition in them whatsoever, and the realization that this is _different -- not like_ their frequent fights, slams into Dante with the force of one helluva bitch slap. Vergil _will_ decapitate him. And Dante isn't confident in his ability to regrow a whole head if his brother decides to execute him right then and there.

 

He raises his hands immediately, employing his best disarming smile. "Hey, hey! It's just me." 

 

But Vergil is still staring at him, empty blues honed in on Dante's own pale eyes. With lethal intensity, and devoid of all cognizance, akin to nothing more than a killing machine, the human within him in absentia. 

 

Dante's smile falters. Momentarily withering as the full scale of Vergil's absence starts settling in. "It's me." He says again, firmer. Softer. The blade presses deeper.

 

He's on an island again, far into the ocean. There are blue veins running across his brothers pale flesh. Up his face, across barren red eyes. His back painfully presses into the bricks, as he's pushed up against a wall, Vergil's - no… Not Vergil's. Nelo Angelo's hands pressing into his throat. Squeezing. Crushing his windpipe under metal fingers.

 

" _Verge._ "

 

It's enough.

 

Suddenly, Vergil resurfaces. Dragged back from the depths of wherever he had been swept off to. Recognition seeping into his gaze in waves, eyes darting as he quickly takes inventory of the situation. There is no more metal at Dante's throat. Yamato gets sheathed, with a hiss that echoes across the still and silent room. Around them, the air is still tense. Vergil straightens, then breathes. But he doesn't move.

 

"Dante." He acknowledges. Slowly. Voice flat.

 

"Vergil," Dante begins, an easy smirk already pulling at his lips, as he takes a moment to recenter himself as well. "Lost you there for a second."

 

"And you thought it _wise_ , to disturb me." 

 

"You weren't paying attention, bro. Couldn't resist." He opens his arms wide, spinning on his heels, one-hundred-eighty degrees. Deliberately turning away from his brother. Taking shelter in the modicum of privacy the action grants him. It's not the smartest move, no. But Vergil won’t cut him down. Not like this. "I'm a man of opportunity after all."

 

Vergil, however, does not appear amused in the slightest. It seems to pull forth all the assertiveness of an older sibling. "And what if I had not allowed you that single moment of grace. What if I had let my blade fall upon your throat with the full force necessary to kill you, brother." He scolds.

 

That can't possibly be concern in his voice. Can it? It makes his head turn, so he may sneer at his brother, incredulously. Clearly Dante has a death wish, because the next few words that fly out of his mouth, completely of their own accord are: "what? Worried about me?"

 

The quip makes Vergil freeze. Brows creasing in slow rising anger. "Would you have _preferred_ I killed you, over your inability to _think_ within the parameters of self preservation?" 

 

"Woah, woah -- you can't kill me. Come on Verge, we're both Sons of Sparda, remember?" Dante jokes. But his brothers hard expression is still in the process of crumbling, into what Dante horrifyingly begins to recognize as _fear._ "So tone the arrogant bravado down a few notches. Unless you want to take this outside." He forces the words out. In the hopeful attempt to halt the situation from delving further into a territory Dante is not willing to navigate right now. Or ever. Anything resembling _fear_ does not belong on his brothers face.

 

"Outside." Follows the bland reply. There's a scoff to Vergil's voice. As if the notion itself is absurd.

 

"You're backing out of a fight?"

 

"I will not sit here and humor you, Dante."

 

"Oh so it's about humoring me, I see. Makes sense. You'd never back down from a fight if you weren't still getting your win out of it." 

 

Damn it. Why can't he stop instigating him.

 

"Do _not._ Make me reconsider."

 

Shut up. Shut up, shut up. Don't say it. 

 

"Or what?" He needs to rein himself back in, somehow. 

 

His brother looks on the verge of either outright _punching him_ , or Triggering out of pure, raw frustration. _Yeah_ , Dante thinks, _doesn’t feel too good does it._

 

Vergil doesn't even deign the ridiculous taunt with a verbal response. Dante had let this get way out of hand.

 

He forces himself to take a step back. Then several _mental_ steps back, trying to back it up a bit, and redirect this in a different direction, instead. Vergil's eyes follow the motion like a hawk waiting for it's preys inevitable demise. So it may feast upon the fresh meat. Dante is performing the equivalent of waving a large red flag, right in front of an angry bull. Instincts running wild.

 

This is all they know, after all.

 

While his brother seems intent on remaining alert,  Dante swallows. Thinking.

 

"Listen -- what if we talked instead, yeah?" 

 

Vergil stares at him, shock plain on his face at the sudden and abrupt shift. Dante doesn't blame him. He just gave himself whiplash.

 

"Talk." His brother says, tersely. Appalment slowly creeping its way into his tone. 

 

"Yeah. Talk." Dante presses on. Vergil levels him with an impassive look. Dante ignores it. "Like about what's bothering you. You're not one to be caught off guard like that." 

 

Maybe he's made a huge mistake. Boldly bringing up his brothers weakness, as if he were talking about the weather. Vergil is already growing defensive. "And if I refuse? What will you do. Fight me?" 

 

Its an irrefutable point. There's nothing he _can_ do if Vergil refuses. They've always settled things through vicious brawls. With his brothers refusal to lose ground to the likes of Dante, there is nothing Dante _can_ do. Vergil has backed him into a corner.

 

His lips press into a thin line. And then part with a breath, rebuttal on his tongue, ready to be deployed. But the quip never comes to fruition. Interrupted by the large double doors to the Devil May Cry suddenly, and violently, getting kicked open. Hinges whining loudly, wood hitting the plaster. 

 

Both twins spin around, heads snapping to attention in unison at the loud demanding sound.

 

"Dante!” Comes the _roar._ “Sixty dollars worth of sundaes? In a _week?_ " Oh fuck. Lady. "I'm going to make you _work_ for this, _Dante._ I'm going to squeeze you dry of every single penny. I will make you sell your _soul_ if it means paying me back _every. Single. Dime._ " 

 

"Uh -- hey Lady, looking good --"

 

"You put it on the Devil May Cry's tab! But this is coming out of _your_ cut, so help me -- "

 

Damn it. 

 

"Dante," Vergil begins. There's a special brand of calm anger to his voice, as his gaze slowly turns from Lady, to regard Dante, instead.

 

_Damn it._

 

____

 

"Vergil."

 

It's a cold November evening, when Dante finally cracks again. They're fresh from a job. And they're all sated, tired, and content. Their shared Devil blood complacent at a successful hunt. It hadn't been a complex job, no. More along the lines of a cleanup -- rid the old marketplace of the (very, very large) demon infestation. Make sure the surrounding area was clear, as to let the construction workers in to fix the last bit of remaining damage from the recent demon apocalypse. His brothers best work yet. 

 

Easy. Absolutely no match to their expertise. Between the three of them they were done in no time. 

 

But Dante has been moping just as much as Vergil has, and Nero had grown sick of it. Trying to convince Dante to communicate with his brother, _and_ _vice-versa_ , when Nero had tried convincing _Vergil_ to communicate with Dante, was very obviously, and glaringly, not working. So the kid had taken matters into his own hands, resorting to staging his own damn intervention, with a finality that left no room for argument. As if Dante hasn't been _trying_ \-- trying for _months_ to get through to his brother. Vergil was an obstinate asshole. But the kid wasn't having any of it. 

 

Nero locks them out of the Devil May Cry HQ. With no remorse whatsoever. 

 

The crisp autumn air is numbing. Their compounded nerves a palpable, cloying mess. The sounds of cars, and the blowing wind, are the only faint and distant chimes that break the silence. Muffled, beneath the ringing in Dante's ears. His brothers gaze regards him with cold stoicism. Blue staring into blue.

 

They sit in utter silence. Vergil's hand resting on Yamato. His own unique comfort.

 

"Why is this so hard for you." Dante speaks first, after a long moment of thought. Words poignant, eyes endless pools of tired blue. He's eager to end this. 

 

"You know why, brother." Vergil drawls. Astonishingly, without further prompting. And he does. Dante knows. 

 

Their relationship has always been complicated. They've always wanted to go separate ways, tugging at each others hand. Trying to pull in the opposite direction, in a battle of will and strength. But it had left them unmoving. The equal force exuded keeping them in place, stable, _strong_ , and united as they had simply let it be as it wished to be -- focusing on other things, instead. Like school, and books; climbing trees, and scuttling in the grass. Running free and wild like the half Devil children they once were.

 

Until one day the prize had been too great, the bait too fascinating; the promise of power too tantalizing. Until one had tugged too hard, and their fingers could no longer hold on. Their grasp growling weak, as their nails bloodied under the brute force of their desperation. Of not wanting to truly let go _._ And before they knew it, an abyss had been laid down between them.

 

Vergil's pull had been stronger, that day. Before Dante could fully comprehend his brothers ultimate goal, he was gone. Lost to the Underworld. To the direction his brother had sought, one he refused to follow. 

 

A painful loss, leaving broken fingers and torn fingernails in the aftermath of the struggle -- the cut that had run across his palm for no longer than a few seconds, had been the betrayal that hurt the most. Burned into his mind for the years to come.

 

And now that Dante was older, stronger -- now that he had the foresight to understand the true weight of his actions, now that he had a _second chance_ , to fix this, to amend his greatest regret, he held onto Vergil's hand. Refusing to let go.

 

"Aren't you tired of this, Vergil?" Dante resorts to pleading. Nero is absolutely savage enough to leave them out here the entire night, if they don't resolve this. And although Dante has always run a little hotter than your typical human, he's not exactly fond of the cold.

 

"It's all we've ever known." Vergil's reply is simple, concise -- a fact, nothing more. 

 

It fills Dante's stomach with the heavy, icy, weight of dread. They've shared a womb. And yet, the memories they share are scarce, few, and far between. Many childhood ones lost to time. Many recent ones born under the encompassing burden of their enmity, their resentment. The gravity of their mistakes.

 

"But it doesn't _have to_ be."

 

"We're old, Dante. Perhaps it's too late for that.” Vergil is turning his back on him. Leaving himself open, unguarded. “You know what they say," his words take on a sardonic lilt, one Dante does not like. "You can't teach an old dog new tricks"

 

"Wow." It's unsettling, how his brother has relinquished himself to the sands of time. His death defying brother. Vergil, whom saw it fit to rise to power, every other candidate, and the entirety of the human world, nothing more than stepping stools to his overachieving twin. "I never took you for the quitter, Verge. Is that really what's deterring you?" 

 

Vergil is silent. Thinking. Dante can see him carefully forming his next phrase. As if it were a matter of life or death -- one wrong word and the world will strike him down. Dante watches, as his brother shoves a hand through his longer hair. Combing back the bits that have come free from the careful styling. Tugging, just enough for Dante to notice the action.

 

"I've been… unwell." It's enough to pique the youngers interest. Enough to keep him silent, allowing the older to continue, undisturbed. Lest his feet grow cold and the walls come back up like slates of concrete Dante knows he can't tear down alone. "I -- objectively, I understand what's happening. I suppose I was simply not prepared for -- this." He says, arms lifting in a wide motion, bordering exasperation.

 

“Yeah.” Dante breathes. Exhaling a gust of warm air, that fogs upon contact with the cold world around them. "It's called regret, brother. It's human -- it’s good for you. Embrace it. Stops you from doing more stupid shit in the future." 

 

Vergil bites his lower lip, in lieu of a response. A nervous tick he's had since they were children. Wistful thinking, perhaps, but Dante is hopeful enough to believe he’s finally getting through to his brother. Without the threat of fratricide.

 

"You have to apologize to Nero, you know."

 

"And what about you, brother." Vergil's voice is clipped. Gaze dropping to the dried leaves dancing across his feet. A maelstrom of red and orange. 

 

Dante scoffs. "You know I never expect anything out of you." He can barely believe Vergil has even _contemplated_ owing him an apology. Let alone inquire about where _Dante_ stands on the issue.

 

Vergil grows silent again. His expression turns unreadable, for a moment. And then, Vergil forces it away, allowing the endless sea of distraught held within pale blue to seep through, a sea Dante is not equipped to navigate. Something is clearly bothering him. The flickering of the neon _Devil May Cry_ sign casting eerie shadows across his features.

 

"You're not planning on skipping town again are you." He's understandably suspicious. Vergil's track record left much to be desired.

 

"I have nowhere else to go."

 

"Will it really kill you to just _relax_ and enjoy your family?"

 

Something painful flickers across Vergil's expression. Dante is quick to realize he’s misstepped. "I’ve spent _twenty years_ in Hell, Dante." _Twenty four,_ Dante thinks. _It was twenty four._ “If you even remotely _think_ I can -- “

 

"You have to try, this is the human realm, you belong here just as much as you think you belong in the Underworld, Vergil, you're _half human, we're half human,_ whether you like it or not, you can't--"

 

“Dante --”

 

“I’m serious Vergil, you can’t keep avoiding this! It’s not just going to magically go away!”

 

“You can’t possibly --”

 

“What? Understand? Then help me understand, Vergil, because I’m really struggling here in case you haven’t --”

 

"I don't know how!" Vergil shouts.

 

It startles Dante into silence.

 

"I spent twenty years in Hell. I was nineteen when -- I made a -- " his brother snarls, bordering on feral. More Devil than Human. Frustrated at his aborted sentences, at his own inability to form cohesive words, his pride still too suffocating. 

 

For a second Dante wonders if he'll fully trigger, the bite of his tone holding the visceral horror he's masking under a thick layer of combativeness. It takes every bit of self control in Dante to remain at ease, forcing his muscles to relax, swallowing back the reflex to call upon his devil arm. Vergil's face is contriting with something ugly -- the realization that he's fucked up. He's truly, genuinely _fucked up._

 

Forty. They're forty. His brother fell at nineteen. Hell had been his home for longer than the human world ever had. Vergil spent his formative years raising a tower to the Underworld, and subsequently living in said Underworld, under Mundus' grasp, under his control, in his domain. His brother is _panicking._  

 

"Vergil," Dante says. Treading very carefully. He needs to placate him, before a fight breaks out. They can't afford another mess, emotionally _and_ financially _._ He already owes too many property damage fees. But at the same time his brother is _talking,_ and they _need_ this. 

 

Vergil's eyes settle on him again. Furiously alight, and daring. _Try it, just try to speak down to me, I will not stand here and merely take it._ "I do not regret my search for power. I do not regret Temen-Ni-Gru. I needed that power, Dante. Do you truly believe we are safe here. Are you truly that _daft_ . The demons will keep coming, as they did that day, and one day they will take from me -- from _us_ again. I will not allow it."

 

It hits him, suddenly. _Nero._ He's talking about Nero. 

 

"I will stab myself again, over and over, _endlessly_ , if it means gaining it. I will scar every inch of my flesh, if it means -- "

 

"You're not alone." Dante interrupts, matter-of-factly. "You never were you know. There's two of us. There has always been two of us, since the day we were born. Since the day we were conceived there was always meant to be two of us."

 

"That's not how that works-"

 

"Shut up, I'm trying to make a point here." Dante grumbles, "and the point is you have a _family_. A family who can handle themselves just fine. You don't have to take it upon yourself to protect us. Not me, not Nero. Or anyone else for that matter."

 

"I know." Says Vergil.

 

"Then why do you-- " right. Formative years.

 

Vergil was acting like a lost teenager, because he kind of _was_ , in a way. His brother knows demons, has extensive knowledge of them. More than Dante has ever gathered throughout his years as a hunter. What Vergil did not quite fully understand, were humans. Dante is going to have to change tactics. 

 

His feet move, taking a singular step closer. One of Vergil's legs slides back a bit, hand moving to rest upon Yamato's hilt. But he doesn’t draw. The short outburst seems to have drained him. The same way it’s fueled his Devil. _Self preservation._

 

"How about this," is the only compromise he can currently think to offer. "How about we just take it nice and easy. One day at a time, yeah?"

 

Offence pulls at his brothers features, "do not patronize me, Dante."

 

"I'm not trying to! Honest." Dante raises his hands in surrender. "Look how about this: how about you spend some time with your son, stay with them for a bit in Fortuna."

 

The faint flicker of panic that breaks through his brothers frown would be hilarious, if this wasn't serious. "You can chill there for a bit, meet the kids-- " 

 

"Kids?" 

 

" _Foster kids._ Nero and his wife are just raising them, at the orphanage." That seems to ease some of the tension from his brothers posture. If only by a slither.

 

"And what makes you think I'll agree to this." He's right. Difficult was Vergil's middle name. 

 

"We fight for it, of course. I win, you go. You win --" Dante crosses an arm over his chest in thought, the other raising to tap a finger against his chin as he starts pacing in place.

 

"If I win, you will _clean up_ _the damn office._ " Comes the demand.

 

"Hey, what's the point in cleaning if it's just gonna get messed up again?"

 

"It's called _upkeep_ , brother."

 

"Fine. Sounds simple enough. Didn't think you'd request something so… _mundane."_

 

"Would you have preferred world domination?" Vergil hisses back.

 

"Nope," Dante is hasty in his reply, letting the 'p' pop between his lips. "Cleaning is good. No take-backsies." 

 

He summons Devil Sword Dante, before his brother can change his mind, and deem another bout of genocide to be an appropriate way to settle their differences. And perhaps it's a bit excessive to call forth such a large sword for such a tiny task. But Devil Sword Dante is an extension of himself. The same way Yamato is an extension of his brother. The blood they spill will share the paramount significance of the act. Making this a _contract_ between Devils. Unbreakable, and absolute. 

 

Vergil knows exactly what Dante is doing. He watches his little brother without a word, as Dante swipes the swords sharp edge across his palm, without a flinch. Drawing his own blood.

 

Vergil's cold eyes scrutinize the offered appendage. As if having second thoughts. 

 

But before Dante can say anything, Vergil is already un-sheathing Yamato with a push of his thumb. And in a quick flash of blue his opposite palm is bleeding as well 

 

"Deal?" Dante asks.

 

"Deal." Vergil grudgingly replies.

 

They shake hands. Their blood sealing the pact. Shared. Half human, Half Devil.

 

They'll always choose their blades over words. And they'll always fight. But right now, in the cold autumn evening of a mid November day, Dante feels they've both won.

 

Vergil uppercuts him straight in the solar plexus.

 

____

 

_Vergil._

 

_Vergil._

 

_Vergil…_

 

_"Vergil,"_

 

_"Yeah, Dante?"_

 

_"Are you sad?"_

 

_"That's an odd question, why would I be sad?"_

 

_"Mother said, sometimes you can be sad, and not even know it. She said sometimes, it's a sadness so deep, that not even the people around you will know you're sad."_

 

_"Well, do I look sad to you?"_

 

_Dante bites his lip, his big blue eyes boring into Vergil with determined scrutiny. "No, I guess not."_

 

_Vergil rolls his own blue eyes, and its written all over his face that he wants to throw Dante an annoyed 'told you so,' but is refraining. Instead he goes back to vexing over the math problem he's been working on for the past twenty minutes._

 

_"Hey Vergil," Dante's voice rings once more._

 

_Vergil huffs, frustrated. With Dante, with the math problem, with their obnoxious teacher. "What is it now, Dante?"_

 

_Dante is quiet, uncharacteristically so. It causes Vergil to pause, all of the anger that Dante can tell has been building up inside his twin extinguishes immediately, under the growing curiosity. The older spares a glance over at his little brother, who's laying on his stomach on their bedroom floor. His literature textbook open in front of him. But Vergil knows Dante has stopped doing his homework ten minutes in, and Dante scrambles to cover the doodling on the side of the page in embarrassment, maybe a bit of guilt._

 

_Dante levels his brother with as serious a look he can pull off, on his young and round face. This was important. "Will you tell me? If you get sad, I mean. If it's so deep I won't be able to tell." Something about the quiet request seems to catch the older by surprise. Vergil's eyes go wide, his mouth going slack for just a second, before his lips close into a thin line, his brows furrowing in uncertainty._

 

_"I promise." Vergil says, his voice holding a firmness that seems to appease Dante._

 

_Vergil rolls his eyes. "Finish your homework, brother, before mother catches us procrastinating." Dante sticks his tongue out. And he will absolutely not ask what 'procrastinating' means._

 

**Author's Note:**

> There will be a second part! Probably from Vergil's pov! Where we get to see him working through his issues. So I will eventually update this to be a series.  
> Thank you for reading this monster LOL


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